Chapter 8 – Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

I was laying there on my bed, naked and working my cock in my hand. I was breathing hard. Watching Silas work on Marcello like that made me breathe hard, made me hard all over. That was because I knew when Silas was finished with Marcello, he would do me, in the same way. And then it would be on the bed for all three of us in a free-for-all that I never in a million years would have imagined I would want to participate in before I'd come to Portugal. Not just Silas fucking both of us, but me fucking Marcello while Silas fucked me.

Silas was standing in the middle of the room, naked, and working the magic of his plow belt on a groaning Marcello. Marcello was bent over in the middle, suspended on that sling, legs and arms dangling toward the floor, while Silas worked him up and down on his cock impaling Marcello's channel from behind with the pressure he applied or released on the sling.

I wanted that. I wanted that too. Each time Silas did that to me, I wanted it again—right then, right away. And I could hardly wait in my arousal to be worked on Silas's cock just as Marcello was now being fucked.

My time with the plow belt would not come tonight, though.

Siren's started going off all over Silas's elaborately secured compound. The windows were lit up like it was day by the searchlights that snapped on all over the upper grounds, and we heard the ominous thud of two of the mines going off inside the perimeter of the outer wall, up near the road.

I looked at Silas in shock as we all reached for our shorts.

"Guns?" I cried out. "Where do you keep the guns?"

"No, not that," Silas growled as Marcello ran out of the room.

"What choice is there?" I asked. "It must be a full-scale assault. Someone has figured it all out. We can at least make a stand."

"There are always choices. I always have choices," Silas answered, as he took my arm and guided me out into his art studio.

* * * *

"Where are they? Where could they have gotten to?" the commando, his face charcoaled and his body swathed in the night-time camouflage that had served no purpose in the floodlit compound. Estaban Delgado was not a happy man. This was all planned so well, and most of the plans had just fizzled. They'd taken the wrong flowers to the funeral. And he'd already lost three men to the mines they'd stepped on while coming over the first compound wall. Delgado wasn't in the mood for hide and seek.

"Where in the shit are they?"

"They were just here," said the American at his side as he reached down and picked up the black leather belt sling that had been dropped in the center of the floor of the bedroom they were in. "This sling is still warm, and this is a signature for Silas Collins. He's still alive and so is Ward Spano, and I'm sure they were both here. They couldn't have gotten very far."

"You promised me. You promised me Collins's head," Delgado spit out. "You said the seizing and murder of my brother, Emilio, was all a mistake—all his doing, all Silas going off the reservation. And then he tried to do it again. To me. You promised me."

"And you can have him," Ted Talbot answered. "I found out where he was holed up and led you here, didn't I? He's got to be around the compound somewhere. He's yours. Just find him."

The two squared off, ready to spit more venom at each other, but their attention was arrested by a whirring sound, and they both rushed to the French doors to the little balcony looking over the villa's pool terrace in time to see a small helicopter lifting off of the beach down below the short cliff.

Just then one of the soldiers burst into the room to report they'd found a tunnel leading under the house and down to the beach.

Estaban started to raise his submachine gun, but Talbot stayed his hand.

"Not a chance of hitting that copter now," he said. And what he'd said was quite true. As the helicopter had lifted off, it banked sharply out over the water and already was turning and heading up the coast toward Spain.

"Pretty hard to hide a helicopter," Talbot said. "Don't worry. I keep my promises. We'll track it down. Maybe we can have someone there to greet it when it lands."

All eyes were trained on the sky, watching the helicopter appear to grow smaller and smaller and smaller as it whirred up the coast.

This was all as planned—not only the diversion of watching the helicopter being flown by Marcello but also not noticing that the sound of the helicopter blades was covering the putting of the engine on the small motorboat Silas and Ward were using to spin along the waves in the opposite direction up the coast of the Gulf of Cadiz to Silas's nearby backup hideout.

"What do we do now?" Ward asked as he settled down between Silas's thighs behind the speedboat's steering wheel. He could feel the hardness of Silas's cock in the small of his back.

"Well, in just a few minutes, I'm going to hove to and give you a fucking like I've never done before. God, that brought on the adrenaline. I'd forgotten how arousing operations could be. I've gotta fuck something right now."

Ward laughed. "That's fine with me. But what then?"

"We always have choices, Ward," Silas said. "We'll always be just a step or two ahead of them—until we're not. But until then, we'll always have choices. Do you fancy France or the Azores? Silas, he's always got choices."

Some choices come before other choices, though. If Delgado and Talbot had night-vision binoculars and trained them west across the water rather than east in the direction of the long-gone helicopter, they might have seen the little speedboat dancing in the water, with two legs draped over the gunwales at each side, and the hard-muscled butt cheeks of a hulking master cocker pistoning away between them. The sounds of the sea, of course, completely obliterated Ward's cries of passion at the lustful taking.